The Works of Lord Byron, Volume 3 | Page 9

and fair Haidée,?Each morning where Flora reposes,?For surely I see her in thee.?Oh, Lovely! thus low I implore thee,?Receive this fond truth from my tongue,?Which utters its song to adore thee,?Yet trembles for what it has sung;?As the branch, at the bidding of Nature,?Adds fragrance and fruit to the tree,?Through her eyes, through her every feature,?Shines the soul of the young Haidée.
But the loveliest garden grows hateful?When Love has abandoned the bowers;?Bring me hemlock--since mine is ungrateful,?That herb is more fragrant than flowers.?The poison, when poured from the chalice,?Will deeply embitter the bowl;?But when drunk to escape from thy malice,?The draught shall be sweet to my soul.?Too cruel! in vain I implore thee?My heart from these horrors to save:?Will nought to my bosom restore thee??Then open the gates of the grave.
As the chief who to combat advances?Secure of his conquest before,?Thus thou, with those eyes for thy lances,?Hast pierced through my heart to its core.?Ah, tell me, my soul! must I perish?By pangs which a smile would dispel??Would the hope, which thou once bad'st me cherish,?For torture repay me too well??Now sad is the garden of roses,?Belovéd but false Haidée!?There Flora all withered reposes,?And mourns o'er thine absence with me.
1811.
[First published, _Childe Harold_, 1812 (4to).]
ON PARTING.
1.
The kiss, dear maid! thy lip has left?Shall never part from mine,?Till happier hours restore the gift?Untainted back to thine.
2.
Thy parting glance, which fondly beams,?An equal love may see:[o]?The tear that from thine eyelid streams?Can weep no change in me.
3.
I ask no pledge to make me blest?In gazing when alone;[p]?Nor one memorial for a breast,?Whose thoughts are all thine own.
4.
Nor need I write--to tell the tale?My pen were doubly weak:?Oh! what can idle words avail,[q]?Unless the heart could speak?
5.
By day or night, in weal or woe,?That heart, no longer free,?Must bear the love it cannot show,?And silent ache for thee.
_March_, 1811.
[First published, _Childe Harold_, 1812(4to).]
FAREWELL TO MALTA.[19]
Adieu, ye joys of La Valette!?Adieu, Sirocco, sun, and sweat!?Adieu, thou palace rarely entered!?Adieu, ye mansions where--I've ventured!?Adieu, ye curséd streets of stairs![20]?(How surely he who mounts them swears!)?Adieu, ye merchants often failing!?Adieu, thou mob for ever railing!?Adieu, ye packets--without letters!?Adieu, ye fools--who ape your betters! 10 Adieu, thou damned'st quarantine,?That gave me fever, and the spleen!?Adieu that stage which makes us yawn, Sirs,?Adieu his Excellency's dancers![21]?Adieu to Peter--whom no fault's in,?But could not teach a colonel waltzing;?Adieu, ye females fraught with graces!?Adieu red coats, and redder faces!?Adieu the supercilious air?Of all that strut _en militaire_![22] 20 I go--but God knows when, or why,?To smoky towns and cloudy sky,?To things (the honest truth to say)?As bad--but in a different way.
Farewell to these, but not adieu,?Triumphant sons of truest blue!?While either Adriatic shore,[23]?And fallen chiefs, and fleets no more,?And nightly smiles, and daily dinners,[24]?Proclaim you war and women's winners. 30 Pardon my Muse, who apt to prate is,?And take my rhyme--because 'tis "gratis."
And now I've got to Mrs. Fraser,[25]?Perhaps you think I mean to praise her--?And were I vain enough to think?My praise was worth this drop of ink,?A line--or two--were no hard matter,?As here, indeed, I need not flatter:?But she must be content to shine?In better praises than in mine, 40 With lively air, and open heart,?And fashion's ease, without its art;?Her hours can gaily glide along.?Nor ask the aid of idle song.
And now, O Malta! since thou'st got us,?Thou little military hot-house!?I'll not offend with words uncivil,?And wish thee rudely at the Devil,?But only stare from out my casement,?And ask, "for what is such a place meant?" 50 Then, in my solitary nook,?Return to scribbling, or a book,?Or take my physic while I'm able?(Two spoonfuls hourly, by this label),?Prefer my nightcap to my beaver,?And bless my stars I've got a fever.